The Letters
by adrenalynn1986
Summary: It's about writing. Or maybe not. Maybe it's about finding out who you are. Let's find out together.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, my dear Lost Girl-ers. I don't know what this is. I'm just trying something out here. Maybe it sucks maybe it doesn't. I wish you all a happy Christmas and take good care of yourselves.**

 _First letter. Friday24th of March 2:03 am. Bo._

"Hey,

Or better 'Hi'. 'Hello'? I don't even know how to start. I haven't written a letter since, I can't even remember. You must think 'What the heck. Why would she write me, if she didn't even know how?'. That's fine. I thought the same and yet I'm typing my ass off. This is my first try. Second tops. I started writing disconnected phrases on my napkin the other night when I was waiting for my fiancé to come back from the dancefloor.

(With her eyeliner. She'd kill me if she ever found out.)

It wasn't a letter. So it doesn't count. Not in my head. More like a mix of drawings and undefinable words.

Yeah, right? Pathetic. But is it? I'm not a dancer nor do I drink. I sit. I wait. I crack a smile. Conversations? Impossible. Too loud and way to slurred from some point on. And the smell of beer and sweat all around me. I do it for her. She loves dancing. And drinking. She drinks a lot. But that's also fine. I don't mind driving her home. At least I think I do.

If you were here now and we had a real face to face conversation you could have heard my sigh.

Sometimes I wonder about things. Nothing too space-y, just things. Have you ever been walking down a street, looking at the people passing you and wondered 'Where do you go to? What is you next mission?' Not like mission in life, just like groceries shopping or something daily life-y. It's funny though. It is, because it let me right to where I am now. Sitting on my unmade bed, naked, writing on my laptop. Yeah well, I am not sure how I happen to be naked in the first place. I think I wanted to take a shower. But I did only make it that far. Getting out of my clothes.

I found your newspaper advertising yesterday or the day before since it's already past twelve. Depends on how you look at it. I haven't slept yet, so, is the past day over just because the clockhand says so? But I digress. Your headline thrilled me the second I spotted it. 'Penpal needed'. I don't know why, since I don't do letters. I mean, seriously, I didn't even know that was still a thing. Penpal. In the year 2017, who writes letters with a pen. No email address. Just a post office box. A number. No Name, no personal address. So, here comes my imagination into play. And I wonder.

I hope you don't mind a non-handwritten-penpal, too. Handwriting tells a lot about a person I've heard. But what is there left to find out then? If you could read me like an open book because you are one of those experts analyzing my illegible scrawl. Maybe you're just curious if my characteristics are similar to what you could see in the letters I wrote. I mean, if we ever meet in person. If we ever make it that far. Maybe it's some kind of science project. Maybe you're a scientist. With a white lab coat. That would be kind of awesome, actually.

I don't even know you. You don't even know me. Is that the whole thing behind this here? Do you want to know me? Do you want to know people? Is this a test?

Gosh what am I doing? I should sleep. Maybe I won't even send that letter. It's too humiliating. Naked writing. I could delete that part and some of the others, but then there would simply be the 'Hey' and a white page until the 'Bye' would round it up and bring it to an end. With 'it' I mean the letter. Which wouldn't be one. So, there'd be nothing to send anyway.

I really should go and take that shower now. It's late and even though I should be tired my head is still uploading pictures and makes me feel weird in my body.

I don't even have a printer.

Anyway,

Bye"


	2. Chapter 2

**The chapters are short and each chapter will be a letter. That's what I have in mind now. Maybe it changes along the way though. Thank you for your reviews and support for the last chapter. One of you wasn't aware that it was Bo writing. You can see whose letter it is in the first line. I hope you have some great holidays. I wish you all some peace and quiet. All mistakes are mine. I'm good in making them, so why not sharing some with you.**

 **I hope you enjoy it.**

 _Second letter. Wednesday 29th of March. Bo._

"Hey.

I decided to stick to 'hey'. I think it's the right choice. It's not too formal since this is a non-formal exchange of thoughts and yet not too casual since our relationship is, yet, non-existent. You see, I did think about how to address you properly. Mainly because of my lack of experience in writing a total stranger. But also because even though I tried I couldn't stop thinking abou you.

I haven't sent my first letter. So it's not even an _exchange._ I put my laptop away the other night and haven't opened it since. I wanted to leave it. Shake it off. What's the point, right? But when I opened the newspaper and read through it like I always do and there you were. Again. Searching for a penpal. I simply couldn't stop thinking about you. I know I said it before, but it's the truth.

Strange isn't it? Thinking about a person you've never spoken to or seen before. I was thinking about the odds here as well. The odds that someone out there is looking for a companion to invest the most precious commodity of mankind.

Time.

I mean, who does that? Invest time and energy in something as simple as writing without a goal in mind? Or maybe that is you're goal. To consume me. My thoughts. My time. Because that's what you do. And I don't know if I like it. But what do you get out of it? I don't know if I like that I don't know why you search for a panpal. The advertising didn't say anything else. Just 'Penpal needed'. Awkward. Maybe you're awkward.

And I've been wondering why I can't let it go. What's the attraction that keeps me involved? I don't do things without getting something out of it in the end. I'm an egoist one could say. A collector in some ways. My needs get the best of me. They own me. And I simply act on them. Although most people do the same with me. Using me in one way or the other. That's life, isn't it?

I'm a loner. Even though I'm never alone. At least when it comes to company. Right now, my wife-to-be is laying next to me, sleeping. She's great. She really is. She gives me the most mind-blowing orgasms and she knows how to cook. She saved me in more ways than just one. She's great. She is.

And still.

There is this feeling inside of me. Deep down. Like a pressure. I can't place it, but it comes up more frequently these days. And it kills joy. It kills pleasure. And what's left in the end is this pressure. And while I write down those words I ask myself why? Why in the world do I keep typing? I don't even intend on printing this letter either. And most importantly it is inappropriate to send anything like that to a post office box without knowing the person behind it. Seriously, maybe I'm sick. Maybe that's the pressure I feel. Maybe it's cancer. Growing in my guts. Maybe I need a doctor.

It would definitely explain my behavior. I must be sick.

I'm sick. Period."


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey there. It's short. I said it would be. But I hope it makes you curious where this leads to. (I for sure am.) Thanks for following this one and all the reviews. It's always so delightful. :)**

 **And here we go.**

* * *

 _Third letter. Friday 4_ _th_ _of April 2017. Bo._

"Hey,

Let's start this thing over. I thought about it. Actually, I kept thinking about it. Like I couldn't stop thinking about it. You made me curious and kept me wondering and led me to this choice.

Yesterday I bought a pen and paper. I was looking through the assortment of variations of pens. Did you know that you can buy pens with ink that you can delete again? Well, I didn't.

It wasn't easy but now I settled on a black ballpen.

I really like black. It looks kind of elegant and it reminds me of those movies where the protagonist writes a letter with a feather and ink. It makes me feel a little bit like I'm one of them right now.

Anyway. I wrote 'start over' because I already tried it twice. To write a letter, I mean. On my laptop. It felt weird and simply not right. I'm still a bit unsure if a penpal is my thing. I don't do 'pals' in general. I mean I have some but I like my privacy and my space and sometimes it's very exhausting to have friends. You have to invest a lot of energy into a friendship. Well, most of _my_ friends are _her_ friends. She has an interesting taste sometimes.

But from the start.

My name is Bo. I don't want to go into details, yet. So that's what you get from me in this letter. My name. I don't know you and I don't know what type of person hides behind this post office box. You could be anyone. A serial killer. A thief. A crazy ex-convict. So, I made another decision.

My own post office box.

Call it paranoid or distrustful. Call it whatever. I call it safety.

I must admit that it thrills me somehow.

It feels like one of those spy stories. Maybe this letter destroys itself in ten seconds, maybe not.

However, this is what you get. Take it or leave it.

Bo


End file.
